


Blowing Off Steam

by queenhomeslice



Series: Mandalorian/Reader Stories [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Chubby Reader, Curvy Reader, F/M, Pining, Reader-Insert, Smut, cantina owner reader, fat reader, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhomeslice/pseuds/queenhomeslice
Summary: Nine months after the job gone wrong on Ord Mantell, the Mandalorian comes back to the Shrieking Sarlacc.___Sequel to "The Contract"
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Series: Mandalorian/Reader Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945552
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CyanideCherub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideCherub/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to, nor am I affiliated with, The Walt Disney Company, Lucasfilm, or any affiliate companies or production studios. I do not work for any production companies behind the Star Wars movies, games, books, tv shows, or other published media. I do not own any characters and I am not making money from this.  
> _____  
> Coffee request from my dear CyanideCherub! Thank you so much for your support. I love you! 
> 
> Rated E for chapter 2

You sigh as you wipe the last metal tankard, reaching up high to place it on the shelf next to the mid-grade Corellian whiskey. It’d been almost a year since you’d first come into contact with the mysterious Mandalorian, and barely a day goes by without you thinking of him (and the little big-eared, wide-eyed green baby that’s in his care). By the grace of the Maker, the Imperial Remnant hadn’t figured out that it was you who’d hired Mando to take them out—things have mostly been peaceful over the past nine months, and you’ve done your best to lay low and provide a neutral space. The one good thing about the attack was the lifting of the city-wide curfew in Ord Mantell City, a good trade-off for the one stormtrooper (instead of two) standing guard outside the cantina door. 

There are a few Savrips still nursing drinks in the corner, the leaders of the local merchant’s guild. There’s one hour left until close—you'd already sent home most of your kitchen staff, with the exception of Ne’dav, who has a habit of not leaving until you’re safely in your room upstairs. The Falleen comes back out, wiping his huge green hands with a dirty dish rag. 

“Kitchen’s clean, boss,” he growls, slinging the rag over his shoulder and sweeping his eyes over the dead cantina. He nods towards the native species in the far left corner. “Need me to kick ‘em out?” 

“Nah, let them be for now. We still have an hour. I’ve cut them off of ale, so I’m not really worried.” 

He nods, black ponytail swaying with the movement of his head. He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, eyes fluttering closed in a moment of relaxation. You sidle up close to him, always feeling safe with Ne’dav by your side—he'd been a cook at the _Sarlacc_ for as long as you could remember, when you were just a little girl and your father was the master bartender. He bristles at your body heat but doesn’t move away, sighing instead as he smirks. 

“Are you okay?” 

It’s a question that’s not poised in the here and now—he means, in general over the last few years of the defeat of the core of the Empire, of the Remnant still operating in many sectors across the galaxy, of the violence and wars that have been at your doorstep for most of your short life. You shake your head—you've never lied to Ne’dav, _ever_ , and you’re not about to start now. 

“I keep thinking about him.” 

There’s no need to elaborate—Ne’dav knows who you mean. 

He grunts. “You humans are so weird, with your emotional attachments. You don’t even know what he looks like. And he’s a killer.” 

You lift an eyebrow, giving him a side-eye. “Your uncle was the leader of this planet’s Black Sun syndicate. Don’t get all moral on me, ‘Dav.” 

Ne’dav snorts. “Point taken.” He clicks his tongue. “If it’s just a good fuck you’re needing...” 

Ne’dav has offered himself to you before—and once you’d become of legal age, you’d gladly accepted, needing to get your rocks off in the way that horny young adults often do. But it had always been a friends-with-benefits sort of thing, and the last couple of years, you’d taken his advances less and less. He never seemed heartbroken about it, still acting as your closest friend and ally, oldest friend and protector. You shake your head. “It’s not you, Ne’dav, it’s just...” 

He nods. “I understand,” he says quietly, switching from Basic to his native tongue, rougher and reptilian. “Coupling with your own kind is preferable.” 

“You’re great, so don’t think otherwise,” you respond in Falleen. “There’s just...something about him.” 

“Females,” Ne’dav grunts, picking at the dirt under his long, sharp nails. 

When you escort the last Mantellian Savrip from the cantina and give an _OK_ salute to the stormtrooper at the door, Ne’dav waits until he hears the click of the security lock from inside the cantina before he wanders off to his tiny home around the block. The rooms upstairs are only half-occupied with a few travelling merchants and contractors helping with the rebuild efforts, and they’d been quiet for hours. You grunt as you ascend the winding stairs up to your room, pressing your thumbprint to the pad by the door to unlock it. You shower and brush your teeth quickly, and spend the rest of the evening touching yourself to memories of the Mandalorian, passing out from multiple orgasms. 

______ 

It’s not too often that a patron needs you in the middle of the night—other than emergency maintenance issues related to faulty wiring or plumbing—you _still_ need to get the desk lamp in room eight rewired, and the sink in room five has a habit of leaking green water on occasion—so most nights, you sleep relatively good. Your cantina doesn’t have set hours—whenever you wake up and prepare the bar, that’s when you unlock the door for patrons. Your kitchen staff has access to the cantina of course, so most days they’re already in the back, preparing food, by the time you wander downstairs. 

So when there’s loud banging on your door in the middle of the night, you wake up disoriented and angry, padding barefoot to your door in your thin tunic, not even bothering to put on a robe. Rubbing your eyes, you curse as the door slides open. 

“You have three seconds to explain yourself, or you’re going to be bantha fodder,” you growl in what you hope is your most intimidating voice. It’s cut off with a yawn, unfortunately—you're still rubbing your eyes, not even really seeing who’s standing in the doorway. 

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re going to have to use a different tactic.” 

Your heart suddenly beats to a stop. Dropping your hand from your sleep-crusted eyes, you blink up at the familiar helmet that’s been haunting your dreams. Behind the Mandalorian is the floating silver orb that houses his tiny green ward. 

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper. 

The Mandalorian shakes his head, reaching a gloved hand out to stroke the tears that have started to roll down one chubby cheek. “Not dreaming,” he says as he steps up close and wraps you in a tender hug. 


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s Din,” the Mandalorian growls from inside of his helmet, voice rough and distorted. 

He’d wasted no time in checking on the sleeping child, quickly discarding his armor and weapons, with the exception of his helmet. You’d stripped quickly, still wet and swollen from touching yourself before bed. 

“What? Your—your name?” You’re on your back, watching as he methodically places his effects in the far corner of your room. 

“Yes,” he says simply. 

“Din,” you repeat, rolling the simple name around in your mouth. You can’t wait to scream it into the night. 

The Mandalorian—Din—climbs onto the bed and straddles you, thick cock already hard with interest. He stares down at you—you can only imagine how he’s looking at you beneath the silver barrier. 

“How did you get in, anyway?” You tilt your head at him in confusion. You _had_ locked the door from the inside, like you do every night. 

“Hm,” he says as he runs his smooth brown hands over your chubby body. “How indeed?” 

You can imagine a cheeky smirk, maybe round dark eyes with cute crinkles at the edges, and it makes your heart swell. You break out into goosebumps under his gentle ministrations—he spends several minutes touching you, mapping out your skin like he’s plotting a chase on a star chart. Like he’s remembering how you feel underneath him—every curve, every dimple, every lump that you’re self-conscious about. It doesn’t seem to matter to him. He squeezes at your breasts, your fat tummy, your thick thighs—your breath hitches and your eyes flutter closed, sighing in awe at this mysterious man who’s come back to you of his own accord. 

“What made you come back?” you whisper, already breathless even though he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

“Dead end on a bounty lead,” Din grunts. “Was frustrated—resources are low, and the child is growing every day, requiring more care. Was told to find a Jedi, that they could help me with the child, but I don’t think they exist anymore.” 

You nod. “It’s dangerous to have such delicate cargo tag along with a bounty hunter.” 

“I hope this is okay,” he murmurs, voice cracking through the distortion in his helmet. “I...I just needed to blow off some steam...” His hands are shaking, and they still on your lower abdomen. 

You shake your head fiercely, sitting up to rub over his shoulders and collarbones, down his toned chest and abdomen. “Not a day goes by when I don’t think of you, Din. You will always have a place here.” 

“I...thank you. I am not used to such hospitality or kindness.” 

“My cantina is your cantina,” you say, flashing him the most loving smile you can muster, hoping that he truly understands how sincere you are. “I’ve been frustrated too...cranky patrons, Imperial Remnant constantly hounding me for information...” 

“Maybe I can ease your stress,” Din says, moving his hands around your hips and to your ass, squeezing hard. 

“Oh, I think you can,” you reply with a wink. 

“ _Fuck,_ Din...fuck me!” you cry as Din thrusts his hard, thick cock into your dripping core. He’s already so hot between his thighs—the sensation is overwhelming. He’s got both of your ankles on his strong shoulders, and he’s sliding in and out of you in long, languid strokes, taking his time and making sure you feel every inch of his cock. You do your best to match his rhythm, clenching your muscles around him as he drags his length along your sensitive, quivering walls. 

“Fuck, __________, you feel so good...” He leans low over you and places the cold metal helmet against your forehead—with him so close, you can hear his pants and soft grunts of pleasure as he fucks you. 

You can’t help but plant a soft kiss at the bottom of his helmet, tears of emotion helplessly falling from your eyes. You respect him and his code, but fuck...what you wouldn’t give to cover his lips with your own. 

But the metal kiss seems to affect him anyway, causing him to groan loudly and pump into you at a more furious pace. 

“So beautiful,” he cries, dropping one arm to wrap around your back, holding your plush body against him. “So...so pure..” 

“ _Din_ ,” you cry out again, shaking with pleasure. “Please, baby, _please_ fuck me. Fuck all that frustration into this pussy, come on...” 

“ _Shab_ ,” he curses, slender hips bucking wildly on their own, his breath coming in ragged. Din fucks you with wild abandon until he cries out loud, distortion device crackling as he releases his hot, thick load into you, rolling his hips as he comes, choking out soft sobs underneath his helmet. 

His thrusts finally loll to slow stop, and he gently pulls out, still shaking from the overstimulation. You roll to the side and Din flops to his side behind you, pulling you to his chest and spooning you. You sleep better than you have in months wrapped in his strong arms. 

______ 

The Mandalorian stays at the cantina for a solid week, doing odd jobs that you pay him for, half in credits and other half in room and board—thank the Maker he’d fixed the sink and the lamp in the upstairs rooms for rent. He trusts you to watch after the mysterious green child—you'd sewn a shoulder sling so that the baby could sit at your chest or at your back while you served drinks and handled your usual cantina business. When you run out of work for him around the cantina, he disappears for twelve hours at a time, but he always returns to your room to take care of both you and his adorable little ward. 

You wake one morning to find all of his bags packed. The child is sitting in his hovering carrier, cooing as he toys with a silver ball in his tiny green hands. 

“I think I’ve found a lead,” Din says. 

You nod, drawing the blankets up around you. You smile at him, albeit sadly—the past week is more than you could’ve ever hoped for. He sounds so much more rested than when he came to you in the middle of the night—so much more focused, his voice strong and sure. 

“So you have to go.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll miss you,” you say. It does no good to keep secrets from a bounty hunter. 

“You shouldn’t.” 

“But I will.” 

Din just grunts, shouldering his pack and his weapons, putting his hand on the child’s silver orb and sliding it shut. He moves towards your bedroom door and slides it open—but pauses to look back. “I’ll miss you, too.” 

“It’s not goodbye forever, is it?” You clutch the sheets and sniff hard. 

“No.” 


End file.
